


Where the Grass Is Always Greener

by TNW2002



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Original Fiction, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25862185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TNW2002/pseuds/TNW2002
Kudos: 7





	1. ENTER CALHOUN

The sun was setting, a crimson and purple abyss on the horizon slinking out of view. The wind threw great, rippling waves across the faraway dunes.

_Tend to the allotments, check the truck, feed the pigs._

On a quaint plot of land tucked in comfortably along some distant road, stretched thin like an asphalt belt along some open, rural, and dusty expanse in the darkest depths of the Southern State, was a man. Outwardly unassuming, he took a seat upon his porch, occasionally sipping at a beer. Alone with his thoughts.

_Move their car, burn their clothes, return the shovel._

The beer - the same brand with which he had shared this moment and the hundreds, perhaps thousands of other moments like it - provided a comfortable respite from the long, strenuous hours to which he had dedicated his life for as long as he cared to remember. He had one job, and every day he carried it out with an almost ritualistic devotion. One may even be inclined to label the man as 'simple'.

 _Wash your hands, change your clothes, double-check the basement lock._

For such a grave mistake one could be mostly forgiven, provided they never faced the misfortune of ever actually meeting Calhoun. Few did, and fewer still could give any more than a slight description of the man. Those who lived in the closest town could only speak of his appearance; the grimy, wiry frame upon which crude layers of muscle, dirt and a thin application of skin are stretched; the rusted pickup truck in the driveway that looked as though it hadn’t seen use since the Early Era. The one thing all passers-by noted, however, was the bounty of Calhoun’s crops.

_Everything must be prepped, for I am once again hungry. Another will come tomorrow._

But no one knew. Not a soul around could say as to how Calhoun’s crops manage to grow. Nobody _could_ have known, nobody _would_ know and as far as many were concerned, nobody _needed_ to know. Every time the supply runners came to fetch the deliveries, the bags of freshly harvested crop were always in their designated spot, without fail. Calhoun never failed; Calhoun always delivered. 

Today was no exception.


	2. THE NIGHT SHIFT

By nightfall, the patrons and their respective entourage had been admitted. The river of High Society trickled to a stop as face after famous face (though he could only recognise a few) passed through the grand, stone-carved entryway under the Bouncer's watchful eye. Not that there would have been anything to watch out for, in all honesty. He knew as well as anyone that his presence was only really needed to dissuade the sick and the poor from trying to seek shelter in and around the doorway. The tragedy of his fellow man briefly flickered and danced around his conscience, though it was stamped out as quickly as it was lit by the disgust brought on by the sight of the mottled skin and uncanny skulking of some passing lowlife across the road.

The man shuffled in an ungainly manner – it was likely that he was only wandering the streets at this hour for he had little else better to do; no family to return to, no home to greet them in, and no friends to seek comfort from. Along with the inevitable hypocrisy that would come about from trying to act like a humanitarian in his line of work, the Bouncer knew that he didn’t have the time to be playing Mother Teresa with the local sick and dying.

He wasn’t paid for it, after all. He was paid to stamp out his conscience, to avoid questions, and to make unwelcome guests intimately familiar with the pavement outside.

This life was a simple one and it suited him well. One may have even been inclined to label the Bouncer as 'simple'. One would probably be correct, though one's teeth were likely to be violently evicted from one's face like an errant drunkard should one try to make the the Bouncer aware of his linearity. While he did indeed enjoy a simple life as the physical barrier between those who are In and those who are most definitely Out, the event that he guarded could be considered anything _but_ a simple matter.

Another, a wall of muscular flesh like himself, finally arrived; come to take his place.

Joy, for a moment, or perhaps relief. The Bouncer never gave his thoughts much thought. It just wasn't in his nature. Freed from his duty, he decided to partake in some of the _extra-financial_ benefits that came with his career. This routine was commonplace amongst the staff, and tonight was no exception. The various caterers, guards and other servants of the House would often partake in the numerous services that were primarily available to the patrons, but the organisers usually looked the other way provided they weren’t taking up space desired by a client. Shutting the heavy, antique doors behind him, various faces began to bounce around in the empty space in his head.

_What would he ask for?_

He thought about his favourite, the one that entertained him best. He hoped it wasn’t already taken.

First though, he needed a drink. Passing along the side of the grand hall, across the slightly elevated walkway that wrapped around the circumference of the room, he stopped to survey the crowd in the centre. Around fifty tables were dotted across the expanse of the room, all draped in pristine white tablecloth, lit by candles, and seated about five each. The room was dim, save for the harsh spotlights that illuminated the catwalk, exposing the veil of nicotine smoke that hovered in its swirling pattern over the numerous silver heads below. A haunting duet of piano and violin softly echoed _Claire de lune_ from an unseen stand on the other side of the room.

He took a seat at the bar, noting how the compacted padding of the ancient leather stools failed to provide a level of comfort consistent with the otherwise high standards of the rest of the event, not that the establishment’s patrons would ever actually approach the bar – instead sending their various wards to collect their drinks for them. The drinks they returned with were tall and thin, with fluids of various colours and an unnerving tendency to glow under the right lighting filled to a fashionable four-fifths of the glass. Ordering one for himself, he downed it quickly to avoid contending with the sickly taste that his master's client seemed to find so appealing. Alas, it just wasn't for him. Regardless, within a moment the menagerie of substances he'd just ingested got to work and-  
  
Once again his mind was free of thought, just as it was after he saw the man outside, though this time the reason was clear.

_What was he here for again?_

Ah, yes. The main event would be on soon and his break wasn’t all that long, so his time was limited. Though by no means a particularly patient man, neither was he a fan of being rushed on any terms but his own. Following a quick word in hushed tones with the maître d', who stood patiently by at the entrance to a long corridor, he’d secured a room for the brief period before the auction began. Padding along the worn olive carpet, down the corridor and to the left, the two came to the sixteenth door. The Bouncer entered, noting the ornate lamps upon the walls, with their curved glass encasement in a deep, jade green, were no brighter than those in the hallway outside.

He stepped over to the bed and seated himself upon its end, knowing they would send one in shortly.


End file.
